


Time

by projectoverlord



Category: The Avengers (2012), The Avengers - All Fandoms
Genre: Blow Jobs, Dark, Dubious Consent, First Kiss, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Restraints
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-04
Updated: 2012-07-04
Packaged: 2017-11-09 04:16:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/451152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/projectoverlord/pseuds/projectoverlord
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint seduces a mark for a mission, but things get out of his depth. Coulson and Natasha save the day. Dark, trigger warning for being restrained against consent.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Time

**Author's Note:**

> This story contains some dark elements, but no rape/non-con. Everything up until the handcuffs is consensual. It does get very close to rape, though, and if it bothers you, please don't read ahead. There is sweet Clint/Coulson at the end, but it gets worse before it gets better. Feel free to skip to the end! I've never written anything like this before, so it's probably terrible. I apologise.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Clint exclaims, eyeing the outfit as though it's set to explode. "You bring that any closer to me and I will put an arrow through your eyeball."

 

Natasha slaps him upside the head and tells him to stop being a child. The dreaded outfit looms closer, and he steps away from it, fingers twitching.

 

"Skinny jeans, seriously? A-and...what the hell is that? Is that a silk shirt? Where the hell is Coulson? _Do not_  come any closer."

 

"Coulson is preparing the rest of the team for this mission," Natasha explains, taking the clothes from the junior agent about to piss himself, and throws them at Clint. "Put it on."

 

"Fuck you," he mumbles, shedding his t-shirt without issue. The shirt slips over his head, and Natasha's mouth quirks just a tiny bit. The skinny jeans are dark washed, and Clint holds them at a distance, staring at them in disdain. "There is not a chance. These are, what, two sizes too small? Tasha, come on!"

 

She merely taps her foot impatiently. Clint groans, and tugs off his trousers. "Remind me again why _I'm_  getting dressed like a cheap call girl?"

 

"The mark likes your type. Rugged, handsome. But you're not going in there wearing ripped jeans and a band t-shirt, Clint. This guy likes upscale. That shirt was worth more than your bow."

 

Clint looks down at it angrily. "So I get to seduce this guy?"

 

"Just for long enough to let the team get in, release the mark's captives, and get out."

 

"Can't I just shoot him?" he asks, hiking the jeans onto his ankles. They refuse to go past his knees, and eventually Natasha takes pity and helps him squeeze his thighs into the denim. They're hunched over, trying to get the denim onto his ass, when Coulson strides in. Their handler takes one look at the scene, sighs, and turns to walk out.

 

"Hold up a second!" Clint shouts. "This is your fault, you help!"

 

"How is this my fault?" Coulson questions, but he's still walking up to them and looping his fingers into the belt loops of the blasted jeans. It's about then that Clint realises what a fucking _stupid_  decision that was, because these jeans aren't fucking going up, and it's going to be even more difficult when he's got a hard-on.

 

"Okay, enough!" he snaps, pulling away. Coulson's fingers brush the insides of his thighs as he goes, and he pointedly does not think about how that feels. Immediately, he drops to the floor, on his back, and wiggles like a fucking worm until the jeans slide up and on. Thoroughly annoyed and out of breath, he climbs slowly to his feet and says brusquely, "What you're saying is, this guy likes his men in jeans so tight that sex is essentially fucking impossible."

 

The first step sends sparks flying up his dick. _Okay_ , wow, not fair. The denim rubs against him in some cruel joke, and he takes a moment. Ignoring the other two, he shoves his hand against his crotch and rearranges.

 

"I don't know, Barton, they're kind of working for you," Natasha says appreciatively, eyeing his ass and shaking her head. "This mark's not gonna know what hit him."

 

" _I'll_  hit him if he tries it on with me while I'm wearing these monstrosities," Clint snaps. "And _yes_ , Coulson, this is your fault. Oh, Barton, we have a job for you! It'll be fun, Barton! Do I look like I'm having fun to you?"

 

"We are," Natasha says, smirking. "Now stop bitching, you have a mission. Get to it."

 

At least his rearrangement has offered some relief, for the denim no longer rubs at such an inopportune place. He looks briefly in the mirror and considers the outfit from all angles. Tugging the shirt out of the jeans, he leaves it to hang. Natasha hands him a black waistcoat, and he stifles the comment burning on the tip of his tongue.

 

"Great," he mutters. "Now I have to go and seduce some rich fucker looking like this. I'm sure you two are going to enjoy this."

 

Striding out of the room with an extremely awkward gait, he stops long enough to put on his shoes, and then heads to the car waiting for him. The mark's photo is handed to him when Coulson gets in the other side of the vehicle, and Clint memorises it. He's not at all unattractive, but he's certainly not Clint's type. Natasha slides in next to them, ordering him to close his eyes before swiftly lining his eyes with a stick of black eyeliner. Clint bristles silently, looking back at the mark's photograph.

 

His tawny blonde hair is short, curly against his forehead. Nice lips, Clint thinks. Well, at least if he has to do this, it won't be with some old, fat bastard. 

 

"Mikael Connor is one of the richest men in New York. Not as rich as Stark, thank god, but Stark's intentions are saint-like compared to Connor," Coulson tells them. "He's been rounding up people with extraordinary ability for almost three months now. We've lost contact with almost thirty of our assets because of this guy, and there are countless others SHIELD doesn't have a file on locked away in Connor's personal collection."

 

"So I go in, distract him while SHIELD releases the prisoners, then what? Why not just put a bullet through his skull?" Clint asks, rearranging his jeans again.

 

"We need more information from him before we can take him out. We think he's responsible for a number of slave trade rings dealing specifically in people with strange abilities. Until we track them down, SHIELD doesn't want to risk losing the head of that order. We'll be gathering intel tonight while you're distracting Connor," Natasha tells him. "I'll make sure to be as fast as I can. Stark's consulting with us too, as well as JARVIS, to make sure the hack goes smoothly. With luck, we'll be in and out before he has his tongue down your throat."

 

"I feel so much better."

 

"Your all clear signal will be relayed through this bracelet," Natasha says, handing over a titanium alloy piece. "One buzz means we're clear, two means keep going. Three means get out, something's gone wrong. If you need to get out, hit the panic switch on the inside and we'll send in agents."

 

Coulson is remarkably silent. Clint looks over at him, and is surprised to find Phil watching him with a solemn expression. "Connor is dangerous. Be careful in there. If you need to get out, use the switch. We'll deal with the fallout."

 

"I can handle this. Besides, what's the worst that could happen? It'll take him all night just to get me out of my pants," Clint jokes, but it's hollow, and the other two know better than to think he's not worried.

 

"We've arrived," the driver tells them. "Agent Barton, you'll be driven to the front entrance."

 

"This is where we get off," Tasha says quietly. "If you need to use it, _use it_."

 

Coulson just nods to him and leaves. A deep-set worry begins to claw at Clint's stomach now it's just him and the driver. He tucks away the photograph and takes a few deep breaths. This'll be easy. He's hit on men before, fucked men before.

 

Natasha's efficient, she's quick, he tells himself. It won't come to that. But it's hard to convince himself otherwise when he knows it's a possibility.

 

"Agent Barton," the driver calls back. "This is where you get out. Uh, good luck in there, yeah?"

 

"Thank you," he says gruffly, sliding out and onto the carpeted entrance to the party. Connor owns the place, not that it's surprising. The guy is a Stark wannabe, in Clint's opinion. 'Cept Stark isn't a publicly gay man locking civilians up in his basement.

 

There's at least four SHIELD agents around him that he recognises, probably a handful more that he doesn't. They each pointedly avoid eye contact, talking to the other party guests. With that barrel of worry building even tighter in his stomach, Clint climbs the steps.

 

"Name?" the doorman asks.

 

"Eric Reed," he replies. SHIELD will have gotten him through the door, he's confident in their infiltration skills. Sure enough, the doorman smiles and waves him through.

 

Inside, the beat pumps through his blood, and the music is so loud he can feel the bass in his chest. There's no flashing lights, thank god. He isn't sure he could handle another cliche without laughing in this wanker's face.

 

A woman offers him a drink, and he takes it. It burns all the way down, and he strides up to the bar. The barman hands him a shot and Clint takes that too. Fucking SHIELD. What right do they have to send him in to fuck some rich dickwad?

 

"Hey gorgeous," says a woman in a tight blue dress. "You looking for a good time?"

 

"You're not my type," he says over the music.

 

"Mr Connor makes sure that everyone is catered for," she replies, leaning into him. "What is your type?"

 

"I'll let you know when I see it," he says.

 

She laughs, haughtily, and strides up to the next gentleman available. Clint leans back against the bar, certain he must look like a right fucker. Eyeliner, seriously? He's going to be hearing about this for the rest of his miserable life.

 

"You have a name?"

 

He'd seen Connor approach, out of the corner of his eye. The man's accent is thick, a mix of german and american, and Clint fixes his smile into place before he turns. "Eric. Eric Reed. And you?"

 

"I'm offended, Mr Reed. This is _my_  party, and you don't even know who I am?" 

 

Clint didn't think he looked _that_  good in these jeans, but this was apparently going to be a lot easier than he thought. He puts on a laugh and holds out a hand. "That must make you Mikael. It's a pleasure," he drawls, keeping his voice deep.

 

A flash of dark hunger crosses the mark's eyes. He leans in, crooning over the music, "The pleasure is all mine, Mr Reed."

 

"Call me Eric," he says, pushing his luck by leaning in even closer. Maria Hill is in his sight lines now, wearing a spectacular red dress, and she nods almost unnoticeably at him before returning to the dancefloor. Yep, definitely not going to live this one down. Ever.

 

"Eric," Mikael says, "have you ever seen New York from ninety five stories up?"

 

"I can't say that I have," Clint tells him.

 

"Would you like to?"

 

They crash through the door, fighting for dominance in the kiss. Clint's going a little off book now, learning as he goes about what works. The SHIELD research hadn't gone so far as to mention that little spot just under the mark's chin he liked to have teeth against, for instance. 

 

Clint slows it down as the door closes behind them, pressing Mikael into the wall. The man's already hard as fuck, and Clint quickly evokes the hottest thing in his registry - the way Phil Coulson looks when he's got his tie loosened and two top buttons undone, swirling his tongue unconsciously around a pen - and manages to catch up without trouble. From there, it's easy to maintain the hard-on, even in the darn jeans. He's only human, after all, and Mikael is _definitely_  good at what he's doing. 

 

A hand snakes down and curls around his ass, and he easily lifts the guy up so Mikael can hook his ankles around Clint's waist.

 

"Bed," Mikael orders roughly, and they stumble over to the huge king bed. Clint goes down on top, straddling the guy's hips and pouring himself into the kiss. He's focused, or rather, distracted, enough to miss the clink of metal. And then the handcuff slips around his wrist and snaps to the headboard.

 

"What the _fuck?!_ " he snaps, pulling against it. Mikael only grins, kissing a line down the archer's chest. Clint struggles as a second set of handcuffs bites into his free wrist. "Get these things off. Now!"

 

"Not so fast, Eric," Mikael says, his breath hot against Clint's bare skin. "It'll be fun. I promise."

 

_Focus on the fucking job, Barton_ , Clint chides himself. But he just can't get out of his memories. Out of the thought of being restrained and hit until he bled.

 

"Fuck off!" he says, using his body to shove Mikael off of him. "Take them off!"

 

The bracelet buzzes once, twice. _Keep going_. Mikael frowns. "Alright, alright. Jesus, it was gonna be fun."

 

The second he's free, Clint has to fight off the urge to curl into a ball. Instead, he bites back a deep sigh of relief and uses his free hands to pull Mikael down on top of him. "I don't like to be tied up."

 

His hand snakes up, pressing to the mark's throat. He bites at Mikael's lip, and a flush of dark heat rushes down the man's skin. "Like to be in control, then?"

 

"You could say that," Clint says, fighting off the urge to be sick. Instead, he kisses like his life depends on it. Starts moving down, taking the focus off his fucking panic attack, and opening buttons as he goes.

 

Mikael bucks up against him. The bracelet buzzes twice. _Keep going_. What the fuck do they think he's doing that they have to keep telling him to keep going? Clint doesn't pause to think as he reaches a belt. He tugs it off and heads for what's underneath those pants.

 

The guy doesn't even warn him before there's come rushing down his throat, and Clint swallows it with an angry thought directed to SHIELD.

 

"You need a minute?" he drawls, flopping down next to Mikael. The guy looks dazed, his eyes hazy and a thin sheen of sweat across his bare stomach.

 

"You have some serious skill with that mouth," he says to Clint. "Anyone ever tell you that?"

 

"Not that I recall," he says, taken aback by Mikael rolling over to kiss him deeply. "I'm not opposed to hearing it."

 

The bracelet buzzes. Once. He waits for another buzz, but it doesn't come. _Fuck_. How's he supposed to get out. The moment of distraction costs him. A handcuff slides back around his wrists, and in a heartbeat he's restrained against the bed. The bracelet is useless - he couldn't reach the switch even if he tried. 

 

Panic sweeps up across him. "Thought I said take these fuckin' things off."

 

"When I'm done," Mikael says lazily. A drawer slides open, and a handful of objects fall onto the bed near Clint's hips. _Fuck, fuck, fuck_. The mark starts on the skintight jeans. "You must've had fun sliding into these. They suit you."

 

_Coulson. Natasha. Fuck. Anyone_. He shouts internally. The toys lying at his hip dig against his bare skin. Fucking SHIELD.

 

"Let me go," he warns, faltering as a hand closes around his dick. "I'm warning you."

 

"Oh, but I like to be in charge too, you see."

 

He picks up the first toy, and Clint's blood runs cold. The panic grips him like he's fallen through ice into freezing water, dread spreading through his bones.

 

That's when the fire alarm goes off. The alarm screams through the air. He doesn't know what it is. If it's SHIELD, if it's a real fire. He can smell smoke. Mikael lurches to his feet, looks around in a panic, and bolts out of the room.

 

"Fucking fantastic!" Clint shouts after him, but he's so relieved he can't even be angry.

 

SHIELD agents burst through the door a heartbeat later, and Clint stares at Natasha in annoyance. "What took you so long?"

 

She pushes out the other agents before they can get a look, and undoes the handcuffs. "We wondered the same thing about you. Coulson ordered the alarm less than ten minutes after we buzzed you the all clear."

 

He rubs his wrist, heart pounding like a fucking stampede. Natasha offers him a look of understanding, and turns her back while he shucks his jeans back up. It's painful, getting them over his dick, but he does it. Tasha hands him his shirt, and the door opens to admit Coulson. The man takes one look at Clint, the handcuffs, and the toys, before his face pales. "Did he?"

 

"Let's just get the fuck out of here," Clint says. "I need a drink. A _strong_  drink."

 

"The car's waiting at the back entrance. Let's go."

 

"Did you get the information?"

 

Natasha nods as they walk. "Everything we need to take down the ring. Fifty eight prisoners freed into SHIELD's hands. We got everything we planned to get."

 

Clint feels sick. Whether it's the fear, or the belly full of that fucker's come, he doesn't know. He just wants to go home and shower, scrub his skin until it's raw. Taking the bracelet off, he throws it at the floor of the car and focuses very intently on the night sky. The cold metal just makes him feel worse. Like he's still back there, handcuffed to a bed staring at some fucker's sickest fantasy.

 

Natasha holds his hand and doesn't say a word the whole way back to SHIELD HQ. The debrief feels like torture, Clint can't fucking wait to fill out this mission report. How much detail do they want? Do they want to know what Connor tastes like, or what that panic feels like when he's waiting for the first punch.

 

Coulson drives him home, because Natasha has to help with the information gathered on the mission. They're quiet. So fucking quiet, and he's still wearing those ridiculous jeans and still tastes come on his tongue.

 

"He didn't," he says to Phil. "You guys pulled the alarm just in time."

 

Phil's jaw clenches tightly, his fingers turn white against the steering wheel. "We shouldn't have sent you in there. It was unacceptable."

 

"He didn't do anything."

 

"Then why do you look whiter than paper?" Coulson retorts. "Why do you smell like someone else's come?"

 

Clint blanches. Is it that obvious? _Fuck_. "Yeah, well, it was a small price to pay. If he'd gotten another minute this would've been a fuck of a lot worse."

 

There's no reply. Clint frowns. It's not like Coulson to be so quiet. Not when he would ordinarily be talking about the mission's success. Anything to calm Clint down. But the man's face is unreadable, and he remains quiet the entire duration of the drive to Clint's apartment.

 

The car slows to a halt outside. Clint doesn't want to say it, doesn't know how to say it, but finally he just mumbles, "Come on. I've got beer."

 

Coulson doesn't argue, just follows him inside. Clint throws his keys on the counter and pulls out a six pack. The first one disappears down his throat in record time, followed closely by a second. It's all it takes, really, combined with the buzz from the shots he'd had at the party. When Coulson says his name in a low, throaty voice, Clint shoves him away and pukes into the bin. His stomach roils, fights back against the control he tries to enact over it. Another heave, and more empties into the bin.

 

He doesn't know when he starts crying, but by the time his stomach's empty he's a fucking mess. Coulson drags him to the bathroom and pushes him into the shower. Clint shakes his head, intent on brushing his teeth. When he's done, he chucks the brush in the bin and leans against the wall in defeat.

 

"Why don't you fuck off back to SHIELD and tell them how fucking well the mission went," he sneers at Phil, anger in his belly replacing the contents he'd emptied into the bin. "Tell them Hawkeye performed admirably for the cause."

 

"Clint," Coulson says gently.

 

Clint ignores him. He starts shrugging out of his clothes, getting stuck, of course, with the fucking jeans. He doesn't even bother. Just turns on the water til it's scalding and steps under, pants and underwear and all.

 

Phil intervenes, turning the water to something that won't burn. He's about to leave when Clint grabs his arm. "You're awful quiet tonight, sir."

 

"I don't accept that this was necessary," Coulson says honestly. "We should not have put you in this position."

 

His suit sleeve is getting wet from Clint's grip on it, but the archer doesn't release him. Clint shakes his head, lets go and laughs in utter defeat. "Who gives a fuck? It's my own fault I panicked. It was just a blowjob."

 

Something darkens in Coulson's eyes, and it hits Clint like a steam train. Slams him back and leaves him in a ditch trying to reconcile his thoughts.

 

"Hold it. You're not fucking angry. You're fucking jealous. What, can't stand the idea of someone else getting sucked off? How long has it been since you got laid, Coulson?"

 

Wrong again. The change in Coulson's face makes that much obvious. Clint frowns. "Jealous of him? What the fuck do you have to be jealous of?"

 

"You're way off base," Phil says, but his voice wavers. Clint catches his arm and steps into Coulson's space.

 

"No. You can't stand the thought of my mouth wrapped around someone's dick, can you?"

 

There. That's it. Clint feels a rush of heat spiral through him. "Wanna know how I got it up with him, sir?"

 

He steps out of the water, pushing Coulson's jacket off his shoulders. The other man's pupils are blown so wide he looks like he's high, and Clint pulls Coulson's tie off with ease.

 

"I thought about your mouth. Your ass. Thought about pushing you up against your desk and tasting you. Every part of you."

 

Coulson shudders. Clint's thoughts of the mission fall away, replaced by black lust coiling in his body. He's painfully hard, painfully restricted by the jeans, and yet it's fucking hot being held in. Coulson slides out of his shirt as though he's in a trance. But the second Clint's hand touches bare skin, the spell is broken. Coulson surges at him, pushing him through the spray and pinning him against the tiles, their lips finding each other and meeting in a heated kiss.

 

Clint forces Phil's belt free, and his pants drop to his ankles. There's nothing underneath but skin - his boxers have fallen away with the pants. Clint grunts, his hard-on growing even worse at the sight of Phil Coulson standing there completely naked in his shower. He kisses him hard, slipping his tongue against Coulson's lips and wrapping his hand around the agent's dick. Phil lets out a haggard breath into the kiss, his hands scrambling for the jeans. With skill that belies his calm demeanour, he slips Clint's jeans to his ankles, following it with the drenched underwear remaining. He doesn't even have time to register before there's a heated mouth against his dick, and Coulson's taken him almost to the hilt down his throat.

 

"Fuck," he whines, hands curling into balls at his sides. Coulson reaches up, grasping one hand and sliding their fingers together til they're holding hands at Clint's hip. "Fuck, Phil, gonna- _fuck_."

 

His orgasm sears through him; a dive over a fucking cliff. Falling through ice, fireworks in his brain. The afterglow leaves him on a high, and Phil kisses him gently. "Nobody does that but me. Understand?"

 

When Clint doesn't respond, a hand presses him into the wall, and Phil growls against his ear, " _Understand?"_

__

"Yeah," Clint says, panting in an effort to catch his breath. "Only you."

 

He drops to his knees and takes Phil's dick in his mouth with swift ease. Hands card through his hair. This time, he seeks out the contact, joining their hands. It makes it different. Different from Mikael, from some quick fuck. It makes it closer, more intimate, more special.

 

Phil hits his orgasm with impressive silence, and Clint swallows every drop, savouring the taste and the feel. Savouring everything about the moment. The look on Coulson's face, flushed and red from being kissed. That look in his eyes of utter contentment.

 

They dry off, pull on fresh clothes that technically belong to Clint, but Clint enjoys seeing Phil in them so much he doesn't ever want to get them back, and fall onto the couch. Clint curls up against his side, kissing him with a slow need that simmers between them.

 

"How long?" he asks into the kiss, breath ghosting across Phil's lips. "How long have you wanted to do that?"

 

"Thirteen months, twenty-eight days," Coulson recites. "Since Tennessee. How long have you been thinking about bending me over my desk?"

 

A surge of heat grips Clint, and he rides it out. Fuck, Coulson has to know what that does to him. Fucker. Finding his voice, he drawls, "Two years. Since I saw you beat the fuck out of those guys in Ohio. You are...exquisite...when you fight."

 

"Well, it seems we have a lot of time to make up for," Phil says lazily.

 

"Yeah," Clint replies. "Right now, we're going to sleep. Too fucking strung out for any more."

 

They fall asleep on the couch, Clint tucked back in against Phil's body, with one of Coulson's hands resting on his hip, the other beneath his neck, fingers threaded with his own. Maybe they're thirteen year olds with schoolkid crushes for holding hands, but Clint doesn't give a fuck about anything but the feel of Phil's palm pressed to his own.

 

**Author's Note:**

> If you've read this far, I hope you enjoyed it. Or...y'know, I'm gonna go die in a hole now. Bye.


End file.
